


Woomera

by E350tb



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: 1975 Constitutional Crisis, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Australian Parliament, Canberra - Freeform, Central Intelligence Agency, Counterculture, F/F, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Journalism, Newspapers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Vietnam War, i'll try to explain the deeper historical stuff don't worry too much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E350tb/pseuds/E350tb
Summary: The year is 1975. The Vietnam War is finally over, but a new crisis has emerged in the Australian Government. Yet young reporter Lapis Lazuli finds herself sidelined, sent away from the corridors of power to make a routine, unimportant report on a stolen diplomatic car dumped in Canberra's north. It should be a boring, menial job to keep her away from the 'men's work' at Parliament House.Except there's an empty folder in the back of the car entitled 'Woomera' - a simple name that will put Lapis on a collision course with the nation's greatest secret - and the shadowy men determined to take it for themselves...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Now this one is a while in coming.
> 
> This is inspired by a couple of historical AUs, notably by AllenbysEyes, that I'd read over the weeks before I started this. I was determined to do a historical AU story of my own, and I wanted to do something local - at least partially because I can physically visit a lot of the locations involved in the story. And so I decided upon the 1975 Constitutional Crisis. This story's going to run through October and into November 1975, and while it's more the backdrop than the focus, the crisis will play a major role in the story, so I'll try to keep it as easy to understand as possible.
> 
> I'd like to offer my sincerest thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this chapter and offering suggestions as to how to make it better. You absolutely _rule._ Check out their stuff, everyone, it's rad!

###  **One**

_'It ain’t me, it ain’t me,  
I ain’t no Senator’s son…' _

_The Canberra Times, Fyshwick, Australian Capital Territory_ _  
_ _16 October 1975_

All hell had broken loose, and Lapis Lazuli was being swept in its wake.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, she supposed; it had been coming for some time. The government had been deadlocked for three years - the House of Representatives had a clear Labor Party majority, but the Senate was controlled by the ‘Coalition’ of the Liberal and Country Parties. Normally, this wouldn’t have been such a problem, but a series of high-profile resignations (something about borrowing money from the Middle East, Lapis didn’t really know the specifics), combined with a new firebrand Leader of the Opposition had led to a perfect storm, and now the Senate was refusing to fund the government. It seemed like a lot of political mumbo-jumbo, but it got the reporters at the Canberra Times _very_ interested.

As a result, Lapis found herself negotiating a throng of frantic reporters, typists, printers and other such employees on her way to the Editor’s office. Everyone was shouting and shoving - she had to duck to avoid the fist of a colleague who was punching the air, declaring that this story might ‘make him.’

In any event, no funding meant a lot more than fuming old politicians, debating with each other on budgets and deficits in Parliament. To the degree of Lapis's understanding, which was admittedly weak, it also meant no social programs, no welfare infrastructure, no government employee paychecks. Some people may go hungry; other's may go without basic utilities. All things considered, Lapis thought words like 'parties' and 'coalition' seemed a tad perverse.

She could hear the editor long before she reached his office - his voice carried in the lukewarm pewter corridors; he was clearly excited.

“...biggest fuckin’ story since Saigon, and it’s _five minutes down the road!_ ” he was shouting, “We’re gonna be fuckin’ shittin’ papers!”

She arrived at the door, carefully opening it. The drab, grey and passé  office was already overcrowded; the senior reporters crowded the editor, their charcoal, brown and beige suits looking almost like an impenetrable wall between her and the boss. The editor himself was standing on his chair and gesticulating wildly, his face red, his tie swinging from side to side as he gestured. He looked almost comical.

“I want you all on this right bloody now!” he boomed, “Branson, Johnson, you’re in the press gallery. I want _up to the minute updates_ , if Whitlam so much as _coughs_ I want to know before we go to print. The rest of you, I want interviews, and you do whatever you fuckin’ have to to get them! Get in faces, make threats, climb over fences, just get me some quotes! Now move, _move, on your bikes!_ ”

Lapis quickly sidestepped as the throng of reporters emerged from the room, leaving only a few dropped papers and the stench of sweat in the air.

“Ah, fuck me,” the editor said, mopping his brow as he climbed down from his chair, “I ain’t been this happy since Saigon fell.”

He walked purposely towards the door, hands on his suspenders. He didn’t even look at Lapis as he began to speak to her.

“Anyway, get me a black coffee and be quick about it…”

“Actually, I came here to ask for a story.”

The editor stopped and stared at her blankly.

“...huh?”

“I’m one of your reporters,” replied Lapis.

“... _huh?_ ”

“Lapis Lazuli,” said Lapis, trying to keep the frustration from her voice, “I’ve worked here for three months.”

“Oh, yeah, right, the… the _woman_ , yes,” nodded the editor, “Uh, I’ve got you… ah fuck, what else is going on today…”

He wandered over to his ‘in’ tray and grabbed the first paper on top.

“Uh… diplomatic car stolen, crashed, abandoned in Hall, blah blah blah, fuckin’ hooligan or something, go check it out.”

He walked out the door, thrusting the paper roughly into Lapis’ chest. She quickly grabbed it before it could slip down to the floor.

“ _Angela!_ ” he bellowed, marching down the corridor, “ _Get me a fuckin’ coffee!_ ”

Lapis looked at the sheet of paper. It was mostly blank, save for a crudely written note - ‘YANK DIPLOMATIC CAR FOUND. BACK PAGE NEWS, MAYBE.’ She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.

It was becoming typical for her. She understood she was a new reporter, and new reporters didn’t get the prestige assignments, but having to constantly remind the other staff that she even _existed_ was galling, to say the least. And the stories she _did_ get tended to be… well, not exactly news.

Oh well, she thought, at least she’d get paid. And who knew - in a few months, she might save enough to try somewhere else. Perhaps Melbourne?

She wandered back down the corridor to the parking lot, ready for another inane assignment.

* * *

Parliament House was a resolute island of marble in the middle of what was still, in many ways, an empty sheep paddock. It was like an island in a sea of green that stretched from Capitol Hill to Lake Burley Griffin - its beaches, the tarmac roads and parking lot, and the great white building itself a mountain. Some might say it was a shining pillar of Australian democracy - others might say it was garbage island.

Today it was surrounded by a massive throng of reporters. Most were unable to come in - they swam around outside like packs of sharks, waiting for a scrap of meat to emerge and wade off their insatiable bloodlust, at least for a little while. Just inside the door, parliamentarians and their staff scuttled about the King’s Hall, whispering, wondering, fearing, anticipating. The Rubicon had been crossed, and now they waited for the Prime Minister’s next move.

It was perhaps odd, in this chamber of democracy, that Pearl found her eyes drawn to the stern, impassive statue of King George V that dominated the centre of the hall. While everything and everyone else thundered hastily about, the King stood resolutely still in his military regalia, his hands on his hips, his nose turned upwards. He was among the parliamentarians but not of them - he was larger than life, and not only in scale.

“Hey, Pearl.”

Pearl turned. One of the security guards - tall, blonde and broad, with the name tag ‘Fryman’ - had wandered up behind her.

“Mr. Fryman,” Pearl nodded.

“I’ve been asked to find you,” said Fryman, “The Prime Minister needs you in his office.”

Pearl nodded, gathering herself as she wandered off towards the left-hand corridor. No time for passing thoughts about dead kings, there was a crisis going on.

The corridor, too, was filled with people, the mass of humanity so thick it almost obscured the green carpet upon which they trampled. Small clumps of people were engaged in fretful conversation; some optimistic, some panicked. Words were thrown around the air, devoid of meaning in the chaos - double-dissolution, Governor-General, supply, Senate, cabinet. She ducked by a particularly animated conversation in time to hear the tail-end.

“...I know that Queensland _fuck_ had a hand in this…”

“Shit, Paul, you can’t say that, what if a journo hears you?”

Pearl pursed her lips. Tempers were short and fingers were being pointed. It looked like it was going to be a busy day in the office.

She was just about to walk into the Prime Minister’s Suite at the end of the corridor when she felt a rough hand grip her shoulder. Startled, she turned around - her face fell.

It was Martin Briggs from the US Embassy - he insisted on ‘Marty’. The balding diplomat bared his teeth in what Pearl guessed was supposed to be a seductive smile, but looked more like a snarling dog. Like just about everyone in Parliament House, he wore a grey suit - it did not flatter him at all.

“Hey there, baby,” he said, “Looking good!”

“I'm _working_ , Mr. Briggs,” said Pearl firmly, “The Prime Minister needs…”

“He's got plenty of typists to look pretty for him,” sneered Marty, “Now how's about you and I…”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Briggs.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a black pinstripe suit stepped out of the Prime Minister’s Suite. He was not terribly handsome - his hair was grey and his eyebrows were prominent, but his face had a sort of ‘working man’ charm to it. At present, he did not look amused at all - he glowered down on Marty, his arms crossed casually, an eyebrow slightly raised.

“Oh, uh, I-err-um - hello, Mr. Prime Minister, I was just looking for you…”

“Were you now?”

Prime Minister Gough Whitlam pursed his lips.

“Yeah, I… if you've got a moment, I…”

“I don't,” replied Whitlam, “There's something of a constitutional crisis going on at the moment - you'll need to come by later.”

“O-okay, I'll come by at six then,” nodded Marty, “I don't mean to be persistent, but President Ford insists…”

“Mm-hmm,” grunted Whitlam, “Very well, six o'clock. Give Ambassador Green my regards. Pearl, come with me, please.”

“Okay then, six o'clock it is! Looking forward to…”

“ _Goodbye,_ Mr. Briggs.”

Pearl watched with some satisfaction as Marty scurried away. As he disappeared, she heard the Prime Minister whisper under his breath.

“ _Shithead_.”

He snorted and turned around, stepping into his Suite. Pearl quickly made to follow.

The Prime Minister’s Suite bustled with activity. The first room was full of secretaries, typing on typewriters and talking on telephones, a chaotic cachaphony of clicking and shouting and the incessant, shrill tones of a half-dozen telephones. Pearl was lucky enough not to be among it - she worked in a small office down the corridor, nearer to the Prime Minister’s office. She could hardly hear herself think out here.

They entered the corridor, Pearl stepping aside to avoid the Treasurer coming the other way. Whitlam offered him a quiet acknowledgment (“Afternoon, Bill.”) before they reached Pearl’s office. It was a narrow, shared room, although her coworker was off today, with a long desk on each side. It connected to another corridor at the far side, which ran parallel to the one she had just been down. Pearl sat down in her chair in front of her typewriter as the Prime Minister produced a few written notes.

“If you could type this up,” he said, “And make sure it gets to Sir John, that'd be fantastic.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Pearl.

“Very good,” replied Whitlam, “You can head home when you're done.”

He pursed his lips.

“God knows time off’s gonna be bloody hard to come by in the next few days,” he muttered, “Take what you can get…”

He walked away, closing the door behind him.

Pearl sighed, cracking her knuckles and beginning to type. She still felt an unpleasant pit in her stomach and the strangest disturbed feeling where Marty had touched her - as if that shoulder were somehow contaminated.

God help her, she detested Marty Briggs.

* * *

The car sat on the side of the Barton Highway, about five hundred metres from the border with New South Wales. It was only ten minutes from the centre of Canberra, but it looked like the middle of nowhere - a landscape of wire fences, open farmland, gum trees and shrubbery.

This car was a new one. A Chrysler Centura, the police had said, as if that meant anything - it was jet black and absolutely spotless. It carried dark diplomatic plates, and a small American flag had been unceremoniously taped to the back window. The decoration struck Lapis as a rather bold statement - a lot of people around here were still bitter about Vietnam, after all. The boot was open, but the only things kept within were scattered sheets of paper.

The police were pulling down their yellow tape when she arrived - a bored copper had told her that there was nothing particularly interesting about the vehicle, and that they were just waiting for a tow to bring it back to the station. The three cops on site paid her little attention as she took photographs - they were just more interested in discussing the cricket.

Lapis sighed, taking one last photograph. She might as well pack up and go back, she supposed - it didn't look like anything unusual was going to happen here.

A gust of wind picked up a folder, blowing it out of the boot and onto the dusty ground by the side of the road. On a sudden whim, Lapis decided to give it a look - she walked over, bent down and picked it up.

It was yellow and worn, the edges dog-eared and dusty. The faded ink letters emblazoned on the hard paper were almost invisible, but a Lapis could just about make out a title.

_WOOMERA 1965-74. CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL JUNK YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW BUT I'M TELLING YOU ANYWAY
> 
> The Canberra Times is a real newspaper, and I hope to god they never find out about my portrayal of them. The staff, however, are all fictional.
> 
> There really is a statue of King George V at Old Parliament House (since supplanted by, well, New Parliament House), which dominates the King's Hall which is the first room you enter when you go into the building. I've always found it striking to have this regal figure at the heart of what is ostensibly a democratic, egalitarian building, but at least it's not Oliver Cromwell. I'm looking at you, London.
> 
> Gough Whitlam had been Prime Minister since 1972, and had something of a mixed record among people. He was pushing through a lot of really needed reforms and made major strides towards Indigenous representation, but he was also spending a lot of money and his government was perceived as chaotic and unstable, particularly after a few of his cabinet got busted for some dodgy financial stuff. The finance stuff isn't really important to this story, but it gives you some background about Whitlam's reputation.
> 
> Hall is basically the same now as it was in 1975 - there's been a few new houses, but it's generally considered semi-rural. I say semi, because it's about ten minutes from the city.
> 
> The Chrysler Centura was specifically built for the Australian market and was hot off the assembly line in 1975. In this case, the embassy might want their money back, as it had a lot of problems and generally vanished when better vehicles became available.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think it's a good idea to start by apoligising. I finished this late last week, and I was leaving off the last bit of editing for the morning the next day before I posted.
> 
> One week passed.
> 
> Today I checked my Google Doc and realised I'd completely forgotten to post this. Whoops.
> 
> With thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading! Read her stuff, it's really great! She's started a Voltron AU that's pretty hecking good.

**Two**

_‘And the legal pads were yellow; hours long, pay packets lean._

_And the telex writers clattered where the gunships once had been.’_

Fryman watched, cheap coffee in hand, as the Major-General, clad in his resplendent lime-green uniform, walked briskly through the King’s Hall and into the government offices.

He'd seen a hundred men like him, back when he was in the army - Colonels, Majors and Captains; Aussies, Yanks and ARVN; officers with inflated opinions of themselves seemed a universal constant. There was a saying in those days - ‘the most dangerous thing on Earth is a Second Lieutenant with a map and compass.’ A detached eye might call them Colonel Bogeys, silly figures of fun to be laughed at.

They'd never been at the front. They'd never seen a bad op, a botched patrol, a misdirected airstrike or ‘blue-on-blue incident.’ Stupid officers weren't funny. Stupid officers got their men killed.

Though, he supposed, he was making assumptions. He knew this General only by appearances - he turned up once a fortnight for a short meeting with the Prime Minister, then disappeared back to who-knew-where. Nobody knew his name or what he did - and if he was honest, that was above Fryman’s pay grade.

“Don! Boss wants you!”

Fryman sighed as a colleague called him from down the Senate corridor.

“Where is he?” Fryman called back.

“He said meet him outside the President’s office!”

Fryman offered a curt nod, heading off down the red-carpeted halls of the Senate. At least it was a bit less crowded down here - the throng of activity was now centered around the offices of the House of Representatives, and nobody really had time for the poor old Senators. Though perhaps that was a blessing for them.

Fryman stepped into the Senate President’s suite, finding himself in a room full of clicking typewriters. Men and women, politicians and journalists and staff, all crowded the room from wall to wall, but the security guard found himself focusing on the typing. It was a loud, urgent, mechanical sound - _tap taptap tap taptaptap_

_Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap._

_Thwup thwup thwup thwup thwup thwup thwup thwup._

_A helicopter, olive green, soaring over open rice paddies of green and brown, and he's sitting on the side and thinking to himself - Christ almighty it's a long way from home. There's a door gunner next to him with his big Pig machine gun and he's talking to the sergeant - ‘height o’ gook hunting season, mate, you're gonna be spoiled for work down there’ - he feels uncomfortable, because Jesus mate you're talking about_ people _…_

_They start to descend and Lieutenant Dewey stands up, and it's time to get his shit into gear. Check the mag, click the safety, remember your SLR’s your best friend and it keeps you alive. Step off and he's immediately ankle deep in mud, and he watches as the Hueys dust off and leave him behind, and he tells himself ‘it's just a routine patrol’, and the Lieutenant turns and says ‘Fryman.’_

_‘Fryman.’_

“For fuck’s sake, Fryman, get your fuckin’ ears checked!”

Fryman jumped. His boss was standing in front of him, his face purple - the bald man somewhat resembled a beetroot. Fryman coughed, shaking his head.

“Sorry,” he said, “I was…”

“Don't care,” snapped the boss, “You're being moved. Edd’s appendix burst, so you're on his shift until he gets back from the hospital.”

“Outside Fraser’s office?”

“Yeah,” nodded the boss, “Twelve to ten.”

“But I need to get home to my son!” exclaimed Fryman, “I…”

“Cry me a river, Fryman,” snapped the boss, “You start tomorrow. Now get out of my sight.”

He stormed away, leaving Fryman decidedly crestfallen.

* * *

The American Embassy was grand in scale - a palatial building of red brick that would look right at home in older parts of Boston or Philadelphia. It was almost intimidating to behold - a grand footprint of American interests just five minutes from Parliament House.

Lapis was waved in by the marine guard after a brisk ID check, and now stood at the desk. The woman there was on the phone - Lapis rapped her fingers on the wooden surface as she waited for her to wrap up.

“...well, very good! Give my regards to the Governor, Ambassador Green’s rooting for him in the primaries… okay, goodbye!”

She hung up.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said sweetly, “How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for the owner of a diplomatic car,” replied Lapis.

She checked her notes and read out the license plate. The secretary nodded, reaching under her desk and checking her files.

“...yes, that's Roy Bradley’s car,” she said, “It was stolen last night - are you with the police?”

“Press,” replied Lapis.

“I see,” said the secretary, “I suppose you'll want to interview Roy about the theft? I'm afraid that won't be possible; he's sick today. Food poisoning, poor dear.”

“Can I talk to his boss or supervisor or something?” asked Lapis.

“Hmm… that would be the Ambassador,” said the secretary, “I’ll see if I can make an appointment - who do you work for?”

“Canberra Times.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” nodded the secretary, “A good paper - I try to pick it up when I can… okay, you should be able to meet with the Ambassador at nine o'clock on Tuesday. That's the earliest I can arrange, will that do?”

“Yeah,” nodded Lapis, “Sounds good to me.”

“Very good, I’ll just need a telephone number…”

“Well, _hello_ there.”

A chill ran down Lapis’ spine as she turned around. An old, balding man in a grey suit, his teeth bared, swaggered towards her. She wrinkled her nose - whatever cologne he wore, it did _not_ flatter him. In fact, he rather smelt like a combination of gasoline and onions.

“Aren’t you a fine young woman?” he jeered, running a hand over her cheek and pointedly ignoring Lapis’ disgusted shudder, “What’s say we make a date for…”

“Mr. Briggs, the ambassador wants you,” interjected the secretary, “He says it’s urgent.”

“Not now,” snapped Mr. Briggs, “I’m conducting _diplomacy_. Say, have you heard of this new ABBA thing…”

“He won’t be kept waiting, Mr. Briggs, he made that very clear,” said the secretary.

Mr. Briggs scowled, taking his hand off Lapis. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Fine, tell him I’m coming in,” he growled, “Fucking _bitch_ …”

He marched petulantly away.

“That’s Mr. Briggs,” said the secretary flatly, “He considers himself a regular Hugh Hefner.”

“Looks more like Dick Nixon,” muttered Lapis.

“That’s not fair,” argued the secretary, “Poor old Richard doesn’t deserve that.”

Lapis grunted, shrugging.

“Anyway, I’ve got you pencilled in,” said the secretary, “And I’ll telephone if anything comes up. You have a lovely weekend, ma’am.”

“Yeah, you too,” nodded Lapis, “See you around.”

She turned, walking briskly to the door. As soon as she was out, she muttered a curse under her breath - she would have far preferred to have spoken with Roy Bradley himself, and she wondered if the Ambassador would have anything useful to tell her - if he’s forthcoming at all, that is.

Oh well. She supposed she couldn’t know until Tuesday. Until then, she’d do as she always did - rummage for the scraps the men at the Canberra Times left her, dream of brighter futures in Melbourne, and spend the weekend alone in her apartment.

At least, that was the plan.

* * *

Government House was the residence of the Governor-General - at present, it was Sir John Kerr.

He was on the surface an uninspiring figure; next to his Prime Minister, he looked decidedly short. His wide, stern features and white hair - thick and puffy, almost like the wig of a Georgian aristocrat - made him look more like a senior accountant or a civil servant than the Head of State. This masked a sharp legal mind of a man who had spent thirty years in the legal profession, and the deep ambition that had propelled him so far left him determined that, ceremonial figure or not, he was certainly no bit player.

Pearl didn’t know what she thought of Kerr - Whitlam seemed to hold him in esteem, but whether that was diplomatic tact or genuine respect, she couldn’t quite tell. Generally, people at Parliament House didn’t tend to think of him - he was there to rubber stamp laws and act as a representative of Great Britain’s fading legal authority in Australia, but nobody really thought he was _vital_ or anything.

In any case, she never got quite as far as the Governor-General himself. She pulled up on the front driveway, next to the expansive lawns of the white brick mansion. Unlike Parliament, it was tranquil - the press were left at the gates, far out of sight. Not that there _were_ any press - who would abandon the ongoing crisis in government to come here? The only sign of activity was of a young man polishing Kerr’s black Rolls-Royce - his official car - and a beleaguered looking secretary standing in front of the door.

Pearl rolled down the window of the old, rusting blue Beetle she drove as the secretary approached. She recognised her immediately - the demure, shy body language and the long bangs that almost seemed to cover her eyes made her a hard one to forget.

“Good afternoon, Blue,” she said politely.

‘Blue’ - her real name was Azzura, but everyone called her Blue - looked troubled, but then, so did everyone today. She wiped her forehead as she reached Pearl’s window.

“The Governor-General is on the phone with the Palace,” she said, “If you have anything for him, I can take it for you.”

“Okay,” nodded Pearl, reaching for Mr. Whitlam’s message on the passenger seat, “It’s just this today. Mr. Whitlam just wants the Governor-General to know he has everything under control.”

“He has a strange definition of control,” said Blue softly as she took the sealed envelope.

“Well, it’s politics,” shrugged Pearl, “You know how it is. I won’t take up more of your time.”

Blue nodded.

“It’s… it’s very nice to see you,” she said softly.

“You too, Blue,” nodded Pearl, “Have a nice day!”

She pulled off the handbrake and drove off down the driveways, glancing at her watch. It was twenty to three - she reckoned had time to swing by and pick up Steven. It'd be a nice surprise for him, she thought - and it would be nice to see how he was getting on at that new school…

* * *

Weston Creek High School was a grim, brick building in the shadow of Mount Stromlo, at the northwestern end of the Tuggeranong Valley. It was in a new part of town gazetted in the mid-sixties - the suburb Waramanga in the District of Weston Creek. Three stories tall, the high school more resembled a prison block, complete with an enclosed central yard.

Pearl frowned as she walked into the front office - she felt distinctly unwelcome. The woman at the desk scowled as she approached.

“I'm here to pick up Steven…”

“He's in the Principal’s office again,” the lady snapped, pointing down the hall.

Pearl resisted the urge to snipe back at her, walking briskly past the front desk and approaching the Principal’s office. She raised her hand to knock, but stopped when she heard the voice on the other side.

“...they're just trying to help you, boy. You need to be more of a _man_.”

Pearl scowled, pointedly opening the door without knocking.

The Principal - a short, balding man in his fifties, wearing an ill-fitting tweed jacket and a grey bowtie - turned around, adjusting his large, round glasses. Next to him, a curly haired boy was shrinking into the seat on the other side of the desk, looking nervously up at the intruder. His left eye was puffy and bruised.

“Ms. Pearl,” said the Principal, “We were just finishing. I don’t appreciate your barging in, though.”

“I won’t be long,” replied Pearl, “Is Steven alright?”

“Just another scuffle with some of the other boys,” replied the Principal.

“He has a black eye,” said Pearl bluntly.

“Yes, they’ll… I’ll be talking to them about that, ma’am,” the Principal nodded, “Why don’t you take Mr. Universe home? I have some paperwork I need to catch up on.”

“I-”

“Very good, good day.”

He sat down, pointedly ignoring Pearl as she took Steven out of the office.

They walked silently back to Pearl’s car, and stayed silent as she drove away, north through Weston Creek and onto the main road into the city - the Tuggeranong Parkway.

The road here was one she knew well, and Pearl managed to loosen her white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel by a degree or two as she fell into the rhythmic familiarity. She stole a glance at Steven, but he was looking out the window with an impassive expression.

“So, what happened?” she asked softly.

“They tried to hurt Peedee again,” murmured Steven.

“So you got in between them,” nodded Pearl.

“I… I couldn’t let them hurt him,” replied Steven, “Because… I know Mr. Purvis says Peedee’s sick and stuff, but he doesn’t _look_ sick to me, and-and he shouldn’t get hurt because of this…”

“The teachers aren’t telling them to do this, are they?” Pearl asked, frowning.

“No.”

 _But they’re certainly not stopping them_ , Pearl thought.

“Look, Steven, I know you want to help your friend,” sighed Pearl, “But you can’t keep coming home with bruises and black eyes. If you keep getting into fights, the school…”

“But I wasn’t fighting!” exclaimed Steven, “I was just… blocking them!”

“I know, sweetie,” replied Pearl, “But that’s not what the teachers think, and… sometimes, Steven, you just can’t fight these things.”

“But why? Someone’s gotta do something!”

Pearl smiled and ruffled his hair.

“You’re a good boy, Steven,” she said, “But it’s not up to you to change the world.”

Steven pouted and crossed his arms.

“Well then who’s gonna?”

Pearl had no reply to that. She sighed again, turning on the car radio.

“ _...opposition frontbencher Robert Ellicott has published a legal opinion that the Governor-General has the right and the duty to dismiss the Whitlam government. As it stands, there does not appear to be any chance of resolving the situation today. In local news, a car found abandoned in Hall this morning has been confirmed as belonging to diplomat Roy Bradley - he could not be reached for comment…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL JUNK YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW BUT I'M TELLING YOU ANYWAY
> 
> Australia had a pretty major involvement in Vietnam from 1966 to 1972 - the fear was that if South Vietnam fell to communism, then Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia would all follow, and this would threaten Australia. As a result, the war was initially popular; the then-Prime Minister, Harold Holt, famously declared his intent to go 'all the way with LBJ.' Like in America, public opinion turned against the war around 1968, and the last troops were pulled out by Whitlam shortly after his election in December 1972.
> 
> The Senate is the Australian upper house, just like in the US. At this time, the Senate President was Justin O'Byrne, who is notable in that I can find nothing particularly notable about him.
> 
> Malcolm Fraser was the leader of the Liberal Party and therefore the Leader of the Opposition. He was very much new blood, having successfully challenged Billy Sneddon for the leadership (his second attempt in two years - some things never change.) Oddly enough for the leader of the 'right-wing' party, he was actually quite progressive and a supporter of multiculturalism, politically not all that different to Whitlam at all. He was incredibly ambitious and more than a little ruthless, which definitely influenced events throughout the October and November of 1975.
> 
> Ambassador Marshall Green had previously had appointments in South Korea and Indonesia. During his assignment in Jakarta, he's generally believed to have been involved in the disposal of President Sukarno by a military coup led by General Suharto - Suharto's forces eventually killed about 500,000 'communists', which Green explicitly condoned in his reports to Washington. It's not really known how deeply he was involved in the 1975 Constitutional Crisis, I'm finding sources saying he was and was not influencing things, so I'm taking a few liberties and making a few guesses regarding his role here.
> 
> Most of what you need to know about John Kerr is written in the chapter, but it's worth saying that he's something of a pantomime villain to a lot of Australian society today. I'm just going to write him as he comes off to me in my research and let you decide.
> 
> Weston Creek High School was real - it's since been renamed Mount Stromlo High School. I don't know how it was in the seventies, but it was a shithole when I went there. :P


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, better late than never. And I had to post something on Woomera today, given the date. I won't tell you why, though - that's a spoiler. :P
> 
> With thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading! She's the best. She is better than all the rest.

**Three**

_Every time I thought I'd got it made  
It seemed the taste was not so sweet_

Civic was the cultural and social hub of the city of Canberra.

All things considered, this was not saying much.

Certainly, the twin Sydney and Melbourne Buildings, stately Mediterranean-styled structures on opposite sides of Northbourne Avenue, had a goodly variety of shops and restaurants, and there was the Monaro Mall if you wanted to visit the upmarket David Jones department store. There was the stately Hotel Civic, famed mostly for a protest against its gender-segregated public bar back in ‘65. But it was just too quiet and dull compared to Sydney or Melbourne, and it lacked the country-town charm of a rural centre. People didn't excitedly anticipate going to Civic - they went there because there was absolutely nowhere else.

Well, except perhaps Queanbeyan, but that was a bit of a drive.

O’Reilly’s was an Irish Pub on the corner of the Sydney Building (or so it was claimed - the founder was an American who'd never been to the Emerald Isle in his life, and the dark, shadowy musk felt more like Goulburn than Galway). It was by no means the heart of Civic, but it was cheap, and that was what mattered to its patrons. There were no politicians here, no big-name journalists - just ordinary people.

Lapis sat at the bar, looking at a dog-eared copy of the Canberra Times. It had been printed this morning, which was already starting to feel like an age ago. _OPPOSITION BLOCKS SUPPLY,_ it bellowed.

“No kidding,” muttered Lapis.

She shrugged and turned through the pages, past the editorials and the letters and through the various local news stories, and found herself at the sports pages. She looked again to be sure, and then threw the paper away in disgust. No abandoned car story - the editor hadn't run it. She doubted he'd even _looked_ at it.

She sighed, burying her head in her arms.

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender asked helpfully.

“Can you get me a ticket out of this place?” replied Lapis.

“I can get you a beer,” shrugged the bartender.

Lapis groaned.

“Straight vodka,” she replied, “It’s been _that_ kind of day.”

“Right away, ma'am.”

The bartender walked off to prepare the drink. As he walked along the counter, he passed two young women, both on the short side, in animated discussion.

“Amethyst, you know I can't,” said one, “I've got an essay due the next day and I need that time to study!”

“C’mon, Peridot, this is what student life is all about!” exclaimed Amethyst, “You gotta live a little!”

“By attending a communist rally?”

“ _Socialist_ ,” Amethyst corrected, “It’s a big tent. And it'll be for a good cause! Trust me, I know a bunch of people there, you'll fit right in!”

“Amethyst…”

“Would you do it for _me_?” asked Amethyst, grinning sweetly and leaning in on her friend.

Peridot’s face turned red.

“I… uh… sure, okay. But don't do that here, we’re in public,” she warned.

Amethyst sighed and sat back.

“Being in public sucks,” she grunted.

“Well, we’ll be back at the dorm soon,” shrugged Peridot.

Amethyst grinned.

The bartender walked back past them, handing the shot of straight vodka to Lapis. He sat the glass down in front of her, a bit of strain in his expression. He looked like he wanted to say something, maybe, but Lapis wasn't particularly in the mood for chit-chat.

"I know what I'm doing," she grunted, letting her fingers circle the rim of her liquid courage. The man's frown deepened momentarily, but he walked away without any probing questions.

 _Mission accomplished._ Miserably, Lapis raised the shot glass.

“Here's to Melbourne,” she said, “Some day.”

She sighed, draining the small glass in one go and shaking her head.

Not far away, Donald Fryman sat at a table, rubbing his temples. A friend of his, a local lawyer named Marilee Zircon, regarded him with sympathetic eyes.

“I'm sorry, Don,” she said, “There just doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it. The RSL guys just won't hear it.”

“Why not?” demanded Fryman, “They're the _Returned and Services League._ I'm a returned serviceman! Why can't they let me in?”

“They, uh, they sent me a letter, but I don't think it's…” Zircon began.

“Give it here,” grunted Fryman.

Swallowing, Zircon produced a single sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Fryman. He unfolded the sheet and read it out loud.

“Ms. Zircon,” he read, “As Mr. Fryman did not serve in a _real war_ \- that's underlined, glad they made that clear - we are not obligated to provide him with membership or support. Furthermore, we believe that the conduct of servicemen in the late war in Vietnam does not correspond with the values of the RSL or the Anzac tradition… where the fuck do they get off on this?”

He threw the letter down in disgust.

“Don…”

“I need some air,” snapped Fryman, climbing to his feet and marching to the door.

The night was brisk - although winter was long over, the Canberra evenings still had their bite. Fryman walked up to his rusty old car and stopped next to it, lighting a cigarette.

“Bad night?”

Fryman looked up. Bill Dewey stood under a street lamp by the bus stop.

“Mhm,” grumbled Fryman, “Bad _day_. This Senate crap’s turning Parliament House upside down. They've got me guarding Fraser now - twelve ‘till ten, can you believe it?”

He took a drag of his smoke.

“If I wanted to work those hours, I'd have stayed at Nui Dat.”

Both men chuckled, and Fryman took another drag.

“So, what’re you up to?” asked Fryman.

“Waiting for a bus,” replied Dewey.

He leaned forward, looking left and right, and shook his head.

“It never seems to be coming, does it?” he sighed.

“Nah,” said Fryman ruefully, “Typical Canberra buses.”

He took one more drag of his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it under his shoe.

“Well, one more,” he said, “Then I’d better be getting home to Peedee.”

“You have a good night, Don,” Dewey nodded.

Fryman smirked and performed a mock salute.

“You too, Lieutenant Dewey.”

He turned and walked back inside. He was halfway back to Zircon’s table when he felt someone tug on his arm. He turned - an elderly fellow, perhaps sixty years old, was sitting alone at a table. He was gaunt, his dark rimmed eyes magnified by a pair of glasses.

“Couldn’t help but notice you’re getting screwed by the RSL too,” he said raspily, “Same happened to me, you know.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” nodded Fryman.

“Yeah, it’s the way it goes, isn’t it?” grunted the man, “The government calls you to do it’s dirty business then throws you away when it’s done.”

He shook his head.

“They sold our lives at Woomera,” he muttered darkly, “May as well have fuckin’ shot us themselves.”

Across the bar, already fairly drunk, Lapis’ ears perked up. _Woomera… Woomera, that was important… Roy Bradley’s car! WOOMERA!_

Lapis pursed her lips and nodded to herself. It was time, she decided, to start getting some answers.

She climbed to her feet in determination. Then she swayed, losing her sense of balance, her vision swimming and her head pounding. Bile built up in her throat. For a moment, she glanced back at the counter, and the ten shot glasses that had accumulated in front of her stool suddenly into sharp focus.

As she fell backwards, crashing to the hard, tiled floor, she asked herself if ten shots of straight vodka had really been such a good idea.

Then there was a crash, and all was dark.

* * *

There’s a blissfulness about unconsciousness, about neither feeling nor thinking. One can’t really be hurt or punished in such a state - it is a strange sort of _zen_ , bereft of the wonder of dreams or the terror of nightmares.

Usually it’s to define when consciousness returns. The exception to this rule is when it comes back in the form of a pounding, splitting headache. In those cases, it comes back with great and unwelcome fanfare.

Lapis groaned, clutching her head as she took stock of her surroundings. She was back in her apartment - how did she get here? She’d been laid on the couch, a pillow under her head and a blanket over her body. Did she walk home? Get a cab? Fly, even? That perhaps was unlikely, but part of her didn’t want to rule it out.

Still moaning to herself, she sat up. The apartment was a mess, but that wasn’t new - cleaning products were expensive and she wasn’t exactly swimming in money. Among the dusty pile of old newspapers and junk mail on the coffee table, she sighed a clean sheet of a paper, a hastily scrawled note written upon it.

_Found you laying outside that Irish Pub at eleven last night and helped you get home. Hope you don’t mind, but I had to go through your pockets to find your keys. - Greg._

Outside? But… but she passed out _inside_ the pub, so…

So they’d picked her up and deposited her on the pavement outside at closing time. _Typical. Stay classy, O’Reilly’s._

She picked up the note paper and turned it over in her hand. There was a logo printed on the other side; _It’s A Wash!_ An address underneath revealed that the business was in Acton, and was owned by a Greg Universe. Maybe she’d have to thank him.

She looked at the clock and sighed heavily. It was already evening - she must have slept all day. She’d be in trouble, except she doubted anyone at the _Canberra Times_ had even noticed she hadn’t come in. Sitting back on the couch, she grabbed the remote and turned the television on.

Immediately, she was met with the face of Gough Whitlam, in the middle of an interview with someone at the Australian Broadcasting Corporation - the ABC.

 _More politics,_ she thought to herself. It was hard not to get sick of it all.

“ _...so, must Sir John Kerr accept your advice whatever advice you give-”_

 _“Unquestionably!_ ” Whitlam replied forcefully, before the interviewer had finished his question, “ _The Governor-General takes the advice of his Prime Minister and from_ no one else. _”_

_“And must act on that advice?”_

_“Unquestionably! The Governor-General_ must _act on the advice of his Prime Minister.”_

_“There is no tolerance here? He must do-”_

_“None whatever.”_

_Huh,_ Lapis thought. Well, this was a slightly interesting development - it seemed Whitlam was making it especially clear that he had no intention of backing down. Still, it all seemed a bit strange and technical. Who cared about the Governor-General anyway? He sat in a mansion and rubber-stamped laws, everybody knew that.

She turned off the TV. It wasn’t worth worrying about.

* * *

There was a lot worth worrying about for Pearl.

The press gallery was already going off; she could hear them from the Prime Minister’s offices. She didn’t blame them - the Prime Minister had directly challenged Ellicott’s legal opinion of the previous day, which wouldn’t have been a problem, except for the fact that it could easily be interpreted as a challenge to Sir John Kerr himself.

It made yesterday seem simple by comparison - a spat between Gough Whitlam and Malcolm Fraser, a normal dispute between parties. Now it threatened to become something impossibly larger. They’d called it a constitutional crisis yesterday - now ‘crisis’ seemed too tame a word. The world had turned upside down once again, and it had only just gone five.

It seemed it’d be a late night, so she’d headed down to grab a coffee. She needed caffeine - it was that or insanity, at this stage.

She met Fryman at the cafeteria, intently studying the board, his eyes sunken and weary. Pearl’s heart went out for him - being a security guard was a thankless job, after all. Next to him was one of her counterparts from Malcolm Fraser’s secretarial pool; a tall, lithe, blonde woman, conservatively dressed, her face set into a perpetual frown.

Yellow - for that was what everyone called her - had a reputation for being neurotic and something of a perfectionist. She was often hard to like. Yet under that exterior was a deeply competent woman, and one that Pearl respected...at a distance.

Nevermind the company. She came here with a goal in mind, _caffeine_ , and she was going to see it through. Pearl stepped up beside Yellow and waited for her turn, though she was pleased when the pair included her in their conversation.

“That Briggs man came around today,” she spat, and Pearl raised an eyebrow.

“Martin Briggs?” she asked, “From the American Embassy?”

“Yeah, I saw him heading into Fraser’s office,” nodded Fryman, “What did he want?”

“I don’t know,” replied Yellow, “Something or another; Mr. Fraser was busy so I told him to come back next week. And then he hung around for twenty minutes _leering_ at me. How does someone so _uncouth_ get to be a diplomat?”

“Beats me,” shrugged Fryman.

“Yeah, he was coming onto me yesterday,” said Pearl, “Gough sent him off - told him to come back at six.”

“Well, if he came back, I didn’t see him,” shrugged Fryman, “But I might have left before him.”

They chatted idly for a little longer as the line moved. Eventually, Pearl had her coffee - no sugar or cream, as usual. Yellow turned her nose up at it.

“You’d have it without _milk_ if they let you,” she sniffed.

“I don’t tell you how to have your coffee,” snapped Pearl.

Yellow snorted as she walked off, leaving Pearl and Fryman alone.

“Are you sure you don’t want to…” said Fryman, looking down at Pearl’s mug.

“I’m sure,” replied Pearl, “Certain flavours make me gag. I’ve always been something of a fussy eater, at any rate.”

“Get it from your parents?” asked Fryman.

“I don’t really remember my parents much,” replied Pearl, “Dad was a railwayman, he left my mother shortly after I was born to go to Junee. Then she died of pneumonia when I was about four, so I grew up with my relatives in Queanbeyan…”

“Oh.” Fryman bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Pearl shrugged, “I don’t think about them much, anyway.”

He nodded, covering his mouth as he yawned.

“I’d better get back to my post,” he said, “You have a nice evening, Pearl.”

“You too, Fryman,” nodded Pearl.

She yawned on reflex as the security guard walked away, and gazed morosely into her coffee. Her face was reflected in the cloudy liquid - god, she looked tired.

To think it was only day two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HISTORICAL JUNK YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW BUT I'M TELLING YOU ANYWAY
> 
> The Sydney and Melbourne Buildings are real and about as described. The Hotel Civic, on the other hand, was demolished in 1985. The site today is now occupied by a McDonalds, a supermarket and a cheap bookshop. The protest mentioned did happen - in order to protest the gender segregation of the Hotel's public bar, a group of women chained themselves to the counter.
> 
> Queanbeyan is a neighboring town to Canberra, just over the New South Wales border.
> 
> There really is an Irish pub in this area, but that's about the only similarity O'Reilly's has with anything that really exists in Canberra.
> 
> There were and are a lot of students in Canberra due to the presence of the Australian National University in Acton, right next to Civic.
> 
> The RSL - Returned and Services League - is the national veteran's organisation in Australia. Their record regarding servicemen returning from Vietnam is a bit controversial, and I've found arguments that this obstruction both did and didn't happen. For the purposes of the story, I decided to run with did, as it seems like something the RSL would have done (Indigenous servicemen, for example, were banned from the RSL after both world wars.) The 'Anzac tradition', referring to the legacy of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps in the First World War and the values attached to that, is a significant part of Australian culture.
> 
> Canberra buses are terrible.
> 
> The interview with Whitlam is real and happened at _about_ this time, although I was unable to find the exact date and time.
> 
> Junee is a railway town in southern New South Wales.


End file.
